


Wish Long and Long

by wook77



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Deamus, Friendship, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Leaving Feast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-24
Updated: 2008-02-23
Packaged: 2018-10-26 11:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10785765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wook77/pseuds/wook77
Summary: You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him ... that you and he might touch each other. (Dean/Seamus Slash)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).
> 
> **Author's notes:**
> 
> Title taken from the poem - I Sing the Body Electric by Emerson. Beta'd by ficlette, janicechess, why_me_why_not and yodels on LJ. Originally writte for the slashfest community on LJ for chaeldub as the recipient. Original request was for "four years after the war, two friends find themselves crossing a line they never thought of".
> 
> Please note this was written before DH. 

There was a feel to Ireland, elemental and beautiful, feral and social. It lived in the hills and it permeated the air. Visitors found themselves breathing deeply, inhaling _Ireland_ and its resultant peace. It seemed a bit of a paradox, what with the Troubles and the fighting since long before Cromwell. For a land bathed in so much blood, it had an air of serenity that blanketed it from the crush of Dublin to the rolling green hills of County Galway.

The feel translated into the music, demanding that the body move in a rhythm that was uniquely Irish. With their stiff upper bodies, the girls, arrayed in a line, beat out a rapid staccato with their feet and the taps on the bottom of their hard soles. The tribal tattoo challenged the music and the musicians responded by speeding up their rhythm. Without breaking the line, the girls sped up their steps, kicking high in the air, toes pointed in the confines of their shoes. Their heavily embroidered dresses barely moved as the legs flew. As the musicians once more increased the speed and the dancers' steps increased as well, their motions became a blur.

The bow of the violin, the fingers on the Uillean pipes' chanter and the elbow pumping the bellows, the pianist and flautist, all blurred and matched the beauty of the dancers. It was at moments like these that Seamus Finnigan was proud of his heritage. The music was his favourite part of being Irish. Until most of the dancers and the musicians finally gave up, leaving one girl, her long strawberry blonde curls tumbling down her back, continuing for a few steps before giving a last sassy kick and bowing to the applause - then it was the dancing. That was until his mam and his aunts came strutting out with steaming bowls of food, then it was the food that was his favourite.

As his mam sat a bowl on the table shoved against a wall in their small house in County Roscommon, his da reached out and palmed her arse. She grinned before swatting the hand away, scolding barely heard over the din of voices raised in song and argument. The concertina, played by his uncle David, added to the chaos of the noise. His sister, Margaret Mary not Fiona or Mairin, joined David, leaning over his shoulder and her crystal voice rose over the conversations. The room quieted once more to listen to her as she sang one of a thousand songs of Ireland, telling of the separation of two lovers separated during _An Gorta Mór_ , as they called it in the region, for something as serious as the Great Famine wasn't strong enough, Irish enough, without the language of the country.

"Lad, dinnae tell me that you won't be eatin' 'tall. Over here now and get yar fill before the rest. Is no' every day me son comes back far a visit!" His mother called across the room as the song spun to its bittersweet ending.

Shaking his head, but with a grin on his face, Seamus wound his way through the crush of people in the main room of his parents' house. He could only stand there as his mam filled his plate with his favourites before pressing it into his hands and shooing him away into the crowd. As he balanced the plate and tried to find a spot to squat, he suffered through the taps on his shoulders and the greetings of his cousins, the friends of his cousins, his parents' neighbors and what seemed to be the whole of Ballaghaderreen arranged in and around the house.

It didn't take much for almost the whole of the town to respond when his family put out the word that the Finnigan's were hosting a _céilidh_. His visit, the first in three years that he'd dared risk, was more than enough. They all wanted to know what he was doing so far away and why he was spending far too much time in England when he should be home and helping his da with the farm or even his mam with her sewing shop. He'd decided when he'd left the rest of Dumbledore's Army, as they still insisted on calling themselves, that he'd simply say he was away at school.

After all, it was the truth, depending on the way one looked at it. Calling what he was doing "school" was a fanciful way of saying learning to survive and maim and suffer with his mates. After three years, it was finally his turn for a visit home. Voldemort's war hadn't spilled onto the shores of Ireland yet. If Seamus had his way, it never would.

Perhaps his face was a bit too grim, or perhaps he simply hadn't avoided the hand that reached out fast enough but soon, he was balancing his food as he was dragged along at the end of a line of intertwined people dancing their way through the house. His mother grinned as she grabbed his plate and called out after him, "You won't be getting out of eating that easily, lad. Need to eat!"

The rest of his mother's speech was lost in the laughter and joy of the carefree line that snaked its way along, gathering up more and more bystanders until Seamus swore that it numbered at least a hundred. As it cut a sharp corner, the line disintegrated and Seamus waved off the group before snatching his plate out of his mam's hands once more. She kissed his cheek before smacking his arse. He gave a cheeky grin before making his way out the bright blue door to sit on the steps and gaze up into the night sky.

It was peaceful here as well, with the muted sound of the voices in the garden and house occasionally interrupting the music that seeped out the walls. He leaned his head back until it rested on the doorjamb and the slight chill of the wood soothed the small headache that he'd been unaware was building. The stars stood out in stark contrast to the darkness they rested in while the light from the lanterns hung throughout the garden cast a glow just to the periphery of his vision.

Like a tourist just off a ferry from England, Seamus inhaled deeply before blowing the air out. This was exactly what he'd needed even if it wasn't what he'd wanted. He'd fought tooth and nail for it to be Dean's turn for an extended visit home. His family, he'd argued, was more in danger and Dean deserved to see them and revel in the familial bond that might be severed without notice.

It was Dean, in the end, who had made Seamus agree to the time away. They'd been sharing a bunk and talking about what they missed from before the war and the bloodshed. Dean had rambled on about the quiet of the common room after everyone had gone to bed or the raucous fights with his mum while Seamus had simply said 'Ireland'. It spoke to the depths of their understanding and friendship that Dean had known exactly what Seamus had meant.

When Dean entreated 'tell me more', Seamus had obliged, describing his da's farm and the land it sat on. He'd been quite firm that there was no green like the grass of an Irish farm and Dean'd have to see it to believe it. Dean had promised _someday_ and Seamus could only hope for that someday as the war dragged on

After his promise of someday, Dean asked that Seamus take the break with 'do it for me, yeah? Wander those fields and breathe it all in and when you come back, you can share the air'. In the morning, Seamus had crawled out of his bunk and touched the back of Dean's hand before telling McGonagall that he was taking the leave they'd insisted he have. Her stern gaze softened as she nodded and he'd walked out of the bunker and through the Apparition wards.

A day later, his mam had cried as he walked up the lane with a small rucksack thrown over his shoulder. It was like a scene in a film he'd caught with Dean in London when they'd begged off their shifts watching and protecting Diagon Alley. Her hair had spun out away from her head while she'd picked up her long skirt and raced towards him. He'd dropped his bag and run the rest of the way, barely biting back the tears that seeing her again had caused. It wasn't that he was a sap or even an emotional sort of bloke.

He was Irish, dammit. They were a sentimental people, after all. It came with the heritage that he'd want to cry when he saw his mam again. It was also his Irish that made him far too stubborn to let the tears fall. He wasn't a boy any longer and he wouldn't cry like one.

After she'd fussed over him and he'd grabbed his bag, they'd walked along the lane arm and arm and, for the moment, ignored the war they both knew was raging across the sea. Instead, she rambled on about his sister Mairin's offer from a boy down the way. When Seamus expressed his shock that his younger sister was to be married, his mother clucked before going on about how they'd met two years ago and they'd been sweet on one another since.

Eventually, the family had returned to greet Seamus and they had called their friends, who in turn had invited others until the _céilidh_ had sprung up around him. The music and the laughter were just what he needed considering that it was only yesterday that he'd slunk away in the early hours of the morning. He hadn't even said goodbye to the rest of the crew still stationed at the hideaway.

He was home now, though, and he wasn't going to think about what they were doing or who was partnering with Dean at this moment. Whoever it was was sure to be a good lad as Dean wouldn't have it any other way. Seamus would worry and Dean didn't like it when Seamus worried.

Instead, Seamus concentrated on the music leeching its way through the walls. The rousing rhythm of a hornpipe had Seamus tapping his foot before standing and making his way back inside. He wasn't sure what had him looking at his timepiece as he swung his mother into the small cramped circle of dancers but it was ten after nine and Seamus didn't feel at all tired. Instead, he felt hopeful, something he hadn't had since he'd joined the war four long years before.

The following noon found him sitting down to a traditional Irish fry. The rashers were prepared just as he'd dreamed about and the black pudding made him grin. No one prepared breakfast like his mam and that was something he repeated multiple times as she fussed over the table, straightening the lace or turning a serving dish just so. He was getting a bit annoyed at her kissing his cheek after she finished her fussing with the table but he bore it as a sign of her love.

She hadn't mentioned the war yet but she was sure to and Seamus didn't want to hear it. His last visit, he'd assured his mam that he'd be fine and that Harry was sure to have it all fixed in a flash. That flash had lasted three years so far and his mam was a good one for bringing up old conversations and misdeeds. He thought that might be the Irish in her, as they were all for holding a grudge, but he also thought it might be the years of going to church every Sunday, even if she was a witch. There were times he swore that they taught women how to give a certain look or use a certain tone to get what they wanted out of men and it had to be the priests and the nuns teaching it in a secret class as he'd not seen any other woman with the same level of skill as a Catholic woman.

Eventually, his brother Dermot made his way out to the shed while his da patted his head before following. His sisters left to go their own way, and Seamus didn't much want to know where as every time he'd asked in the past, they'd merely giggled and rolled their eyes at him. That was probably another lesson they offered in that back classroom as well.

Soon, it was just he and his mam sitting at the table, separated by a mountain of food. She gave him that look that spoke volumes and Seamus sighed.

"Let me help you with this." He gestured towards the food before standing and starting to clear the mess of the shared meal.

"Leave it, Seamus, you know what I need to say." He'd not heard that tone from her since he was a lad and he'd sullied his First Communion suit out in the pigsty even though she insisted he stay in the front room on the overstuffed sofa that was for company. That tone said that she was about to cry and that they wouldn't be happy tears.

"I know, mam, I know, yeah? I know you won't believe me but we're making headway and it should be over soon. Harry's doing his best like we all are." When she snorted her disbelief, Seamus glared. "Don't be like that; I thought we'd talked about that. He's not like they say in the rags, you know that."

"He keeps you away from us for three long years and I'm supposed to be believing that? I guess I should be thanking him for putting me son in danger for years as well?" She didn't sound close to tears any longer and he counted his blessings.

"Christ, mam, it's no' like that 'tall! I volunteered for this, you ken?" He raked his hands through his hair in frustration as their voices started to rise.

"Don't you be takin' the Lord's name in vain in this house, boyo, no' when he's lookin' out for ye and keepin' ye safe!" Seamus started to pace as his mother's voice grew shrill. "Sit down and let me speak my mind."

Seamus sat and his mother reached across the table and between the bowls to grab his hands. Her hands were cold and felt frail and _old_ all of a sudden. Finally, he understood what Dean had been thinking. More than Ireland, he'd missed his family. Dean had seen that and, more importantly, had realised that Seamus was taking the idea that they would always be there for granted.

"I don' like yellin' at ye, ye ken? I worry and ye don' owl nearly enough. Always full of talk about that Thomas boy and never enough about yourself." Her grip tightened and that tone that warned of tears was back. "I worry." The last was whispered and Seamus gave her hands a squeeze back.

"'M fine, healthy and whole as you can see. Tá mé chomh mór sin i ngrá leat." The tears started to fall as he switched to Irish to tell his mam how much he loved her.

He stood and walked around the table, ignoring the mess, to stand behind her. His arms encircled her and he pressed his ear against hers. "Tá mé chomh mór sin i ngrá leat."

They stayed like that for what seemed an age until an owl swooped into the open kitchen window and landed on the back of the chair Seamus had vacated.

 

Seamus,

There's been an attack. Dean is at St. Mungo's. He's asked for you.

N.L.

"I…I've got to go. It's sorry I am but it's Dean, he's…" His voice trailed off as his mam snatched the parchment from his hands. It was her turn to stand and embrace.

"Go on, then. We'll be here for you. Let You-Know-Who show his face here and he'll have a force ta be reckoned with. I'll make your excuses, go on, hurry." Seamus nodded into the crook of her neck before going up to the room he'd planned on sharing with Dermot and stuffing his few things in his rucksack.

His footsteps were heavy as he made his way back down the steps. His mam held out a bag and from the scent, Seamus knew she'd filled it with the leftovers from the night before.

Her hug was tight as she whispered, "Come back to me, safe, whole and hearty. I won't be accepting anything less."

"Course, mam." Seamus wrapped his arms around her, bags bumping against her back before giving her one last squeeze and stepping back.

"Go 'awn with ye now." Her hand swiped across her eyes.

He only nodded before Apparating away. The journey back to London was much shorter as Seamus didn't take the time to absorb or bask in the beauty of the land and people.

If Ireland was a beautiful dance, London was a cacophony of sound and sharp movements. There was no peace to be found here as it was too ensconced in a bloody war unnoticed by the majority of its populace.

It was short work for him to make his way to St. Mungo's. It was much more work to make his way into the wizarding hospital. First they requested that he surrender his bags to be searched. The guards poked and prodded everything in them, even pulling out a slice of cake and sniffing it.

"Don't be getting any of your filthy hands on me food," he demanded.

"Identification, please." Seamus rolled his eyes before pulling out the small card that showed he wasn't a Death Eater or that he paid his taxes or whatever the fuck it did.

"Stand still for the scan." The guard, a Hufflepuff from a year before Seamus if he remembered correctly, held out his wand and cast a scanning spell over Seamus. The light glowed a faint blue before disappearing.

"I'll have to take your wand." This time, Seamus snarled.

"No fecking way, mate. 'M not being separated from it and I don't much care about your demands for it." The guard signaled another over. "My mate, my _best mate_ , is upstairs right now, hurt because he's protecting the likes of you while you sit in your cozy little corner here."

"No one is allowed upstairs with their wands. It's a safety precaution. If you continue to make a scene, we'll force you to leave."

"Look, you know me; we went to school together, yeah? I'm not a fecking Death Eater and I sure as fuck ain't gonna be hurtin' no one. I'm keeping me wand and I'm going upstairs."

As the standoff continued, Hermione came through the doors and Seamus threw a relieved look at her. "Tell these blighters that I'm keeping me wand and to let me see Dean."

"Stebbins, he's part of our team, didn't you look at your roster of authorised visitors? Really, you would think you'd remember to do that. You'll be very lucky if Seamus doesn't choose to file a complaint about you impeding an investigation and possibly endangering all of St. Mungo's just because you didn't look at the roster." Hermione smiled at Seamus even as she berated the guard.

"I did and he isn't on it." Now the guard sounded petulant and Seamus smirked.

"He's right here, see? Finnigan, Seamus." Hermione pointed a finger towards the roster and the guard flushed scarlet.

"Right, sorry." The words were mumbled but Seamus accepted them.

"Come along, Seamus, Dean's been asking for you. He's this way." They climbed the steps to the door labeled, "Fourth Floor: Spell Damage".

They wandered past the Janus Thickey Ward and Seamus breathed a sigh of relief. At the end of the hall, there were two serious looking lads standing outside a door and Seamus's chest tightened. It tightened further when Hermione grabbed his arm.

"He... Seamus, he's not well, not well at all. Just..." her voice trailed off as she looked anywhere but at Seamus. "Just be ready."

"What's happened, then? Neville's owl didn't much say what had happened, just that there was an attack and Dean'd been asking for me." That tightness spread to his gut as her eyes filled with tears.

"He's seriously injured, the Healers don't know if..." Once more, her voice trailed off. She looked at the floor as she continued, "...if he'll make it."

Seamus shrugged her hand off his arm and rushed down the hallway. When he approached the men guarding the doorway, he shouldered his way through them, completely ignoring their cries of, "you can't go in there, you're not authorised". Hermione would take care of it.

Once he slammed the door shut behind him, he froze. Dean was lying on the bed in the center of the room. What little skin could be seen was made all the more stark by the contrast between the ebony of Dean's flesh and the whiteness of his bandages and the bed and the entire room. It was so white that Seamus wondered if he'd crossed into the heaven he'd grown up with.

"Dean?" He whispered as he stood still, hand touching his lips. "Deanie?" Christ but Dean hated it when he called him 'Deanie'. If anything would get a response, it was sure to be that nickname.

A sound came from the cocoon of bandages and blankets on the bed and Seamus came out of his stupor. Crossing the room, Seamus hesitated next to the bundle on the bed. Even Dean's face was wrapped in the white bandages; his hands, his arms and his chest were all wrapped except for a small patch just above his right nipple.

"Dean?" He whispered again and for a moment, he was back on watch with Dean, whispering dirty jokes back and forth to pass the time. The noise came again and Seamus reached out a hand to touch the arm in front of him.

"Don't, Seamus. He can't be touched." Hermione's voice was low. Seamus jerked his hand back and held it against his chest with his other hand. "It was a spell, the Healers aren't certain what caused it but he can't be touched, it hurts too much."

"What happened?" Seamus couldn't tear his gaze from Dean as he shifted uncomfortably.

"Dean and Nev were doing their rounds at about ten after nine when the spell came out of nowhere. They don't know who cast it or what it was. It hit Dean but he seemed fine until about an hour later. Dean kept scratching and then he started raking his nails down his skin. He wouldn't stop so I, well, I stunned him and we rushed here. After awhile, his skin just couldn't take being touched and so he was sedated. The spell keeps getting worse. It, that is, it..." Seamus finally looked away from Dean to see Hermione twisting her shirt into knots. "It started to peel away and they had to wrap him like that. The Healers have been bringing him out of the sedation every hour to check to see if it's getting worse. He screamed for you and I had Neville send that owl."

"Nev was his partner?" Hermione nodded and Seamus lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. "Christ."

Dean moaned and then cried out when his hand brushed the bar on the side of the bed. Hermione blanched and left while Seamus lightly moved Dean's hand closer to his body. After Dean seemed more comfortable, Seamus dropped into the chair next to the bed. He didn't know how long he sat there staring at Dean before the door opened and a Healer came in. She was gentle but firm in her ministrations, talking to Dean the entire time while ignoring Seamus.

"Shay?" Dean's voice sounded raspy and Seamus leaned forward.

"I'm here, mate, right here."

"Where?"

"To your right, behind the cow that won't move her arse so I can see you."

"And just who are you calling a cow, young man?" Her tone was sharp but the smile on her face belied it even as she shifted to the other side of the bed.

"Am I dying?" Dean started to lift his hand before crying out in pain.

"Not if I can help it."

"Stay."

"Of course."

They didn't speak again throughout the night as Dean was poked and prodded by the same Healer every hour. About three in the morning, Neville came into the room and Seamus gave him a weary smile.

"I'm sorry," Neville said. Seamus nodded in acknowledgement. "We were just walking and the spell came out of nowhere, didn't see anything at all. He said he was alright but then he started scratching and..."

"It's fine, Nev. No worries, I'm sure you did your best. Dean'll be fine, you'll see."

Neville only gave a sad smile back.

"You'll see," Seamus repeated but he wasn't sure if it was to convince Neville or himself.

As the days passed, Dean didn't improve but he didn't get worse either. Seamus spent as much time as he could in the hospital, sitting in that uncomfortable chair or sleeping on the floor. His mates took turns bringing him food and the Healers turned a blind eye to it. Dean seemed to respond better when Seamus was about so he made sure to stay close, telling obvious lies or ghost stories from childhood. He talked about his family quite a bit as well.

"You should've seen my mam when I came up the lane, Dean. She gathered up her skirt like that bird in that movie we caught awhile back. She ran and I'm not ashamed to admit that I almost cried when she hugged me. Christ but she's getting up there in years, didn't much realise it until I was holding her boney hand in my meaty masculine hand," Seamus gave a laugh and Dean huffed out a breath that Seamus knew from recent experience was his version of a laugh. "Mairin cried like a wee lass but did you know she's engaged now? Dating a boy from down about the O'Shaughnessy area. You wouldn't know where that is but it's a big farm cross town from da's. You would've liked the dancing, plenty of bonny lasses for you to make eyes at. You'll have to come along the next time, mam asked after you. I've been sending her updates on ye and she sends her love. I've talked to your mam as well. She's a nice woman, looks a bit like you except not nearly so tall, must get that from your da. Seems to like me so she has brilliant taste, as well." The huff came again and Seamus gave Dean a cheeky grin.

"Does not." The words rasped out from Dean and Seamus's grin grew wider.

"Now don't be insulting your mam like that, went through hours of labour to have you and what do you do but insult her? You're a horribly ungrateful sod." This time, the huff came rapidly and repeatedly until it turned into a cough.

"Don't be doing that, it worries me. You hate it when I worry so stop that." Even as he chastised, Seamus grabbed the small glass of water and tipped the straw towards Dean's lips.

After three weeks, the Healers finally were able to heal Dean's skin so that it wouldn't peel constantly though he still couldn't stand to be touched. When the bandages came off, Seamus was there, his smiling as the first Dean saw in the muted light of the room. The rest of the crew except for Harry and Ron were there as well, some bracing themselves to see damaged skin but it was the same as it had always been.

"You're bald, mate, bald and ugly." Even as Hermione and Neville gasped from their spots next to him, Dean grinned and lifted his hand slightly to toss a rude gesture Seamus's way.

"Love you too, you fucking tosser." Dean sounded exhausted but Seamus was just relieved that Dean was whole for the most part.

"Now, gentlemen, if you could please watch your language, there are ladies present." The Healer smiled as she unwrapped the bandages from Dean's leg.

"Where?" They both asked at the same time and finally the whole room started laughing when Hermione punched him on the shoulder.

"What was that for?" Seamus rubbed his shoulder.

"I'm a lady." Hermione sounded huffy but he saw the slight shimmer of tears in her eyes.

"Not when you're shagging Ron, you're not." Seamus switched to a falsetto, "oh _Ron_ , right there, yes yes _yes_!"

Hermione slugged him again while Dean laughed and flinched as the bandages came off his legs.

"I do not sound like that, Seamus Finnigan!" Hermione pouted while Seamus crossed to be beside Dean's bed.

"Alright there?" Dean gave a tight smile in response and Seamus reached out to grab his hand before he remembered. Seamus wanted, so much that he could feel the skin under his hand, the sinews and muscles and bones firm within his grasp; but he couldn't hurt Dean. Not when he was in so much pain already and not when it was Seamus's absence that caused it in the first place.

The thought startled Seamus. He wasn't tending to Dean, entertaining him, comforting him or just being there with him because he felt guilty, was he? He had nothing to be guilty about; he'd taken the leave Dean himself had insisted upon. Seamus might be Irish, sentimental to a fault and overly influenced by his mam's ability to make him feel guilty in a trice but he wasn't feeling anything but pain and sympathy for Dean.

He locked away the idea of feeling guilty for dancing with his mam while Dean was hit from behind and instead coached Dean through breathing as the last of the bandages were removed. Hermione and Neville breathed another sigh of relief, almost in unison, as Dean's chest was revealed and there was no scarring.

"The lady and the rest of you, you'll need to leave now. I'm sure this gentleman here doesn't want you witness to his bits." Hermione laughed, more relieved than amused, and led the way out of the room. Nev scurried behind her but Seamus lingered.

"I could stay if you want." Dean shook his head and Seamus patted the sheet next to Dean's hand. "Alright then. Give a shout if you need me."

When Seamus went out into the hall, Hermione smiled at him. "It's a relief that he's healed, isn't it?"

"But he's not, is he? He can't be touched still. Don't know how that all works with the clothes and bandages and sheets and all but he can't go around sedated all the bloody time because it's too much for him." Seamus paced across the hall to keep from punching the cold stone of the walls.

"I know that, Seamus, I'm just relieved that he won't be scarred." Hermione sounded like she was placating him and that only served to piss him off more.

"Fuck, Hermione, you think it's not scarring to not be touched? Christ, how many times a day do you touch yourself let alone others? Ten, fifteen, a hundred? Fuck it, for someone so smart, you're too fucking stupid to be here right now." Seamus stormed off down the hall towards the steps. He needed air, fresh air to fill his lungs and clear away the antiseptic smell of the hospital.

There was no fresh air to be found as he stalked past the security center and out into the streets of London. The city stank like auto exhaust, sweat and greed. The people on the sidewalk glare at him as he stood still and they marched around him. For a moment, he felt a bit like Moses parting the great sea of people.

It was an impetuous move but Seamus quickly stalked back into St. Mungo's, glaring his way through security with a snarled, "not in the mood for games today, mate," and made his way to the Floo center. Tossing the pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace, Seamus spat out, "The Screaming Banshee" before stepping through. He stepped out of the fireplace into the small pub in Tameside.

Without pausing to acknowledge anyone, he exited the pub and made his way to the small house at the end of the lane. A small sign outside read "Lancashire Flats". He pulled his wand out of his pocket and with a heavy shoulder to the door, forced it open. Before the inhabitants could react, he calmly cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on two and dodged a curse from another.

" _Stupefy_!" The thud of the body hitting the ground was gratifying but even more gratifying was the last inhabitant rushing at him like a bull, head low and aimed straight for his gut. At the last second, Seamus shifted to the right and caught the man about the shoulders, helping to ram him into the door. Instead of holding, the door shattered under the force of their combined weight and they fell, Seamus landing on top.

The sickening fleshy thud of fist into face, chest, arm or shoulder sounded musical to Seamus's ears. The sharp crack of the man's collarbone breaking under the onslaught had him grinning as he sat on the man, holding him steady with his left hand while he continued to pound with his right.

"You fucking bastard, ye're gonna be telling me everything about that curse, yeh ken?" When the man didn't respond, Seamus punched his face again, splitting his lip and breaking his nose. "We can keep going, mate, I've a fierce likin' for this."

The man only shook his head and Seamus's grin turned feral. His left hand fisted into the shirt and pulled him up a bit. "What the fuck was it?" Each word was steady and enunciated.

"Don't know, Malfoy..."

"Malfoy what? I'd be talkin' a bit more and hedgin' a wee bit less if I were you."

"I don't know. Malfoy came up with it, gave the words to Yaxley!"

"Not good enough." Seamus jabbed his fist into the broken nose again. "What were the words? You were there, you heard him!"

"I swear, I didn't hear!" The man's eyes rolled as Seamus slammed him against the ground before picking him up again.

"I'll make sure you never hear again, we have an understanding?" Seamus didn't recognise the voice that came out but it didn't matter as the man started to babble something about Malfoy and spell and then stopped abruptly, eyes rolling into the back of his head.

The hand rested on his shoulder lightly before a soft voice ordered, "That's enough, Seamus."

"Not enough, not going to be enough." Seamus slammed the man against the ground once more.

"I mean it, Seamus, stop. He's not going to be able to answer you." The hand tightened on his shoulder.

"If Dean can't be touched, I'm going to make sure that he -" Seamus shook the bleeding man, "- never wants to be touched again in his fecking life."

"Don't you think I feel the same way? I was there, mate, this whole thing is my fault. I didn't watch out for my partner." The crack of Apparition followed Neville's words. "Don't become one of them."

"Christ, Nev." Seamus felt more than heard his voice break.

"I know, Shay, I know." Neville's voice was so soft and it all just became too much for Seamus; he turned and held onto Neville as Aurors approached and bound each of the men Seamus had attacked and stunned.

He wouldn't normally feel odd about being held by Neville and he usually wouldn't notice that it felt amazing to be touched. Dean couldn't be touched and Seamus felt guilty for absorbing the touch and needing it so much. Right now, though, he needed the peace that came with letting go and being held.

"Christ," he repeated as Neville rubbed circles on his back.

"We'll work it out, we just have to believe." Seamus nodded. "Come on, we should get back, Dean needs you."

"Finnigan, we'll need a statement." Shacklebolt's voice came from behind the two men and Seamus turned and nodded. "Go to your friend first and we'll catch up with you. Good work here."

When they reached Dean's room, Seamus gave a sheepish grin. "Sorry, mate, said I'd be here and I hare off like that."

"Could you step out, Nev? Please?" Dean's voice no longer sounded rusty. Neville backed out of the room with a small wave.

The silence between them stretched on, not uncomfortable but not companionable either. Seamus was trapped in his thoughts while feeling a bit ashamed of how he'd beat that man even after he'd passed out.

"What did you do?" They'd been quiet for so long that Seamus was startled out of his contemplations.

"Remember that suspected safehouse in Tameside?" Seamus couldn't look at Dean. "They deserved it and I'm not going to apologise so don't be asking me to."

"What did you do?" Seamus continued to look about the room, glad that there was finally some colour in the room. The flowers were wilting a bit but they still added a dash of brightness while a throw in Gryffindor colours rested across Dean's lap over the sterile sheet.

"I gave 'em what they deserved." He hated that he sounded belligerent and defensive but Dean had always been able to make Seamus feel guilty with a look, the only one almost as skilled as his mam.

"Hurting them isn't going to fix this, Shay. I'm beginning to think nothing will." Dean started to continue but Seamus interrupted.

"I'm not giving up here and you'd better not be doing so either, do you hear me, Thomas?" Finally, Seamus's gaze swung to Dean and he noticed how tired his mate looked, how sad, how different without his hair.

"I think the whole of the hospital heard you."

"Too bloody right they should. I'm not going to be allowing anyone to give up on you." Seamus sounded fierce even to his own ears and Dean grinned a bit sadly.

"Thanks, mate." Waving it off, Seamus stood to pace the room.

"You beat 'em raw, didn't you?"

"How'd you know?"

"Look at your hands. Bloody hell, Finnigan, you're in a hospital, go get them looked at." They stared at one another before finally the tension broke as they laughed.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two months passed and the Healers couldn't find a cure for Dean's pain. Even more troubling for Seamus, Hermione couldn't find a cure. She'd ramble on about spinal injuries or blunt force trauma causing neurosomething that sounded made up to Seamus. Between the Healers and Hermione, they'd expound on cases in the Muggle world and possible magical solutions but nothing was helping. In the end, Seamus was amazed that Dean had withstood all the poking and prodding as much as he had.

"No more, no bloody more." Dean smacked at the Healers but only managed to hit his hand on the bed. "Oh God, that fucking hurts."

One of the Healers approached with some potion and Dean waved that away. "No more potions, no more spells, no more any-fucking-thing."

"Mister Thomas, if we don't continue attempting cures, you might never heal." The woman's voice sounded overly condescending to Seamus and he knew Dean well enough to know just how Dean would respond.

"If you take one step closer, I won't be responsible for my actions. I said no more and I mean it. I can't take it anymore." This time, Dean looked at Seamus. "I can't do it."

Seamus heard the plea from Dean.

"You heard him. No more. Out! Get out!" Seamus started shooing each of the Healers out of the room until it was just the two of them again.

"I can't do it anymore, Shay. I know I said I wouldn't give up but I can't anymore. The spells only hurt more and…"

"I know but if you're not here, where will you be? You need someone to look after you, change your bandages and such."

"Couldn't you…" Dean's voice faded off.

"I'll be right back, mate. Don't go anywhere." Seamus gave a saucy wink and Dean held up two fingers.

Out in the hall, the Healers waited, a bit like vultures or so Seamus thought. "He's about to break. He wants out of here."

"Mister Finnigan, he needs specialized care. He won't be able to get that anywhere but here."

"Bullshit. You wrap a few bandages around him every other day and feed him with potions you think will help with a cure." The Healer huffed and looked affronted. "I can do all that; just let me break him out of here. He'll go crazy if he can't at least go outside soon."

"We'll need to discuss this. Please wait here." With one last look to the door, the Healers walked down the hall, leaving Seamus standing alone.

They'd gotten rid of the guard months ago as Seamus was practically living in St. Mungo's with Dean, except when Dean insisted that Seamus take time for himself. During that time, he'd wander through a park, breathing in the air and wondering when Dean'd be allowed to enjoy this sort of freedom.

After one mission in particular, a bloody mission that had almost gotten them cursed more times than they could count, they'd gone to a park in whatever town it'd been. There, they'd basked in the sun while walking along, bumping shoulders companionably. Dean had been warm; Seamus remembered how it'd felt to have Dean radiating that heat and he'd wanted to suck it all into his own body.

Seamus also remembered how much the thought had scared him at the time. You didn't have thoughts like that about your best mate, didn't wonder what it'd be like to touch more, feel the heat radiating away from the bare skin with his hand as he touched in a decidedly more than friendly way.

At the time, he'd shoved the thoughts down so deep that he'd not thought about them until the other day in the park. Now that they were back, it was hard to shove them down once more. Not when Dean's condition made touch a constant thought in Seamus's head. Avoiding the small gestures they'd always done pained Seamus, hurt him deep to the core that he couldn't just reach out and tug on Dean's shirt or punch his arm when he said something particularly coarse.

It was like that game he'd played as a child, really. That stupid game where Margaret Mary would say "don't think about pink elephants" and of course, a pink elephant would pop into his mind. He lost every time, whether it was his natural curiosity or his stubborn nature, he wasn't sure. Either one worked as a reason for him.

It got to the point where Seamus had started to dream about those small touches as he remembered them. There was the hug after the one mission two years ago where everything had almost gone pear-shaped and Dean's hand in his as he'd pulled Dean from the path of a stray hex during a battle.

At times, Seamus swore that he could still feel those ghosting touches when Dean looked at him from his bed. Dean had to be wanting to walk around outside again. The only person Seamus knew better than himself was Dean.

Before he could dwell any longer, the Healers came back down the hall, their sensible shoes making a _clump clump_ noise on the floor.

"We've decided that he's allowed to leave but you must check back once a month so we can watch his progress. We'll show you how to bandage him to keep the pressure constant on his extremities." The Healer seemed sympathetic.

"Right, thanks. He'll appreciate it."

"Of course. Come along, Mister Finnigan, no time like the present. Don't want to keep him trapped here any longer than necessary."

When they re-entered the room, Dean looked up hopefully and Seamus gave another wink.

"Well?" Seamus only grinned. "Come on, you prat."

"Shut your gob, Thomas. I'm busy learning from the professionals." The Healer gave a cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh before pulling back the blankets with a flourish.

"Mister Finnigan, you're going to want to start with his legs." Seamus nodded before unwrapping the bandages, starting at Dean's ankles.

"What are you doing?" Dean looked intrigued.

"Already said it, mate. I'm learning from the professionals. We're springing you but I'm to be learning how to do all of this. Shut your gob and let me get on with it." Dean laughed, sounding more relieved than amused.

Over the next twenty minutes, Seamus saw more of Dean than he'd seen since their days in the Gryffindor dorms with the communal showers. He still felt as warm as Seamus remembered but when Seamus touched him with anything more than a light brush, Dean flinched. Instead of concentrating on Dean's skin, he concentrated on the bandages and keeping them taut so that the pressure was constant on all of Dean's limbs.

After a few more times unwrapping and rewrapping, the Healer declared Seamus proficient enough. When she left to start the discharge procedure, they exchanged a conspiratorial smile.

"Where are we going then, once they spring me?" Dean asked, sounding happier than he had in a very long time.

"Ireland." The echo of the conversation from all those months before caused a melancholy silence before Dean grinned and said,

"That'd be just fine."


	2. Chapter 2

Apparating was too much for Dean, as was Portkey. Instead, they took the ferry and then Seamus rented an auto for the rest of the journey to his da's farm. Dean flinched constantly, his lips pursed and his forehead wrinkled.

It was with gratitude that Seamus turned onto the lane. His sister, Fiona, was in front of the house, watching as the strange auto meandered closer. He could tell the moment she recognized him behind the wheel as her face lit and she ran inside. Before he could park, his mam and one of his other sisters, Mairin, rushed outside.

As soon as he was out of the car, they were fussing over him, brushing his hair out of his face or hugging him before touching his arm. Hearing a car door slam, Seamus turned and gestured towards Dean. "Mam, Fiona, Mairin, this is Dean."

" _Cead Mile Failte_!" His mam rushed over to embrace Dean but Seamus cried out and she stopped. "'Tis sorry I am. I'll be doing me best not ta forget again."

"It's quite alright, Missus Finnigan. I'm still getting used to it too."

Seamus gestured his sisters around the boot to start gathering up their bags.

"This way, then, we'll let the girls take care of your things. I'll show you your room." His mam gestured towards the house as she spoke.

"Girls?" Seamus demanded as they went into the house. Dean laughed and the sound was musical and peaceful.

That night found them sitting in the garden, a bird giving out a mournful cry as they settled into the bench. Seamus stretched his legs out in front of him and breathed in deeply. He could see Dean looking at him as he inhaled again.

"Do you smell that?" Dean shook his head. "Oh, Dean, breathe deep now. There's a lad. That is the smell of Ireland. It's a rich soil and a beautiful land. I'll take you walking soon and we'll explore the fields here, show you the wall I helped me da build when I was just a wee lad."

As the words slipped away, the silence grew as they both breathed. Seamus could see Dean drifting off to sleep so he stood and waited for Dean to wake enough to follow.

"Think you'll find your way to your room?" Seamus asked with a cheeky grin.

"If not, I'll just follow you since we're in the same room." Dean smirked as he shot back.

"Aye, well, there is that. Come along then. It's been a busy day for the two of us and knowing da, we'll be up before the dawn." Seamus reached out a hand to help Dean stand before he snatched it back. Dean only stared before pushing himself off the bench.

"Before dawn? You're taking the piss, yeah?" Dean asked as they started into the house.

"Afraid not, boyo."

When they reached the top of the stairs, they both turned into the first door on the right. A small light burned near the window and they both started to strip as they prepared for bed. Seamus couldn't help but snatch glances towards Dean. He told himself he was checking to make sure that Dean was alright and didn't need his bandages changed. He was lying to himself but he didn't want to acknowledge it.

After they were both down to their pants, they crawled into the beds on opposite sides of the room. "Ready, mate?" Seamus asked as he gestured towards the light. Dean nodded and Seamus extinguished the light.

His pillow felt hard as he turned onto his back. The blankets were scratchy and the sheets were far too stiff. Rolling back onto his side, he could see Dean lying on his side, staring at him. The faded light of the moon drifted through the curtains as they shifted in the slight breeze of the open window.

"Seamus?" Dean whispered. "You awake?"

"We just crawled in, of course I'm awake." They continued to stare at one another and Seamus felt warmth pooling in his chest. The room wasn't overly large and if Seamus reached while Dean did the same, they'd be able to touch.

"Thanks."

Seamus waited for Dean to continue. When he didn't, Seamus asked, "For what?", sounding confused.

"Getting me out of there and bringing me to your home. Thanks for helping me. I'm sure it's not going to be easy but I appreciate it more than I can say."

"You can thank me by not flirting with my sisters." Seamus teased.

"Cheeky bugger, you know I wouldn't do that. It would be like flirting with you." Dean teased back and Seamus couldn't help the small stab of hurt that shot through his chest. He ignored it though.

"Sod off, Thomas. They're pretty girls. Wait 'til you see Margaret Mary. She's a beauty, that one. It's a shame that she's married already."

"Will you tell me all the stories so I know 'em?"

"Aye, I can do that but in the morning, yeah? I'm tired as shite, that floor was fucking uncomfortable." Seamus held his pillow tighter, curling in on himself as he burrowed deeper under the blankets.

"Didn't have to sleep on the floor, git. Could've stayed at the bunker and just visited, you know. I didn't need you around the whole time playing nursemaid." Seamus snorted into the silence after Dean's declaration. "I wanted you there but I didn't need you."

"Go to sleep, sap." Seamus drifted off to sleep, the sound of Dean's breath soothing him as he went.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Seamus's prediction of before dawn proved incorrect as they woke to the sound of a tractor starting up in the fields. Seamus woke gradually, fighting to stay in the dream he was sure to not remember when he finished waking. They'd been walking hand in hand, he and Dean. The fields were green with the plants just starting to push out of the soil. Conversation was easy between them, like it'd been since they were eleven and Seamus had ducked into the compartment on the train that Dean and Neville had been sitting in.

The best part was that Dean was carefree again, peaceful and happy, instead of the slightly withdrawn and pain-filled young man he was now. Seamus would do anything to bring back that Dean. They'd learned their lesson the hard way, though. Time turners couldn't fix everything. Harry had tried it even though Hermione had lectured him for days on the dangers and how you couldn't fix the past. It had turned out alright in the end but it had required too much effort and too much time.

There were times that Seamus wasn't sure that that attempt wasn't the reason that the war had dragged on the way it had. He couldn't blame Harry for it, not now that he wanted the same thing. It wasn't even a selfish reason he wanted it, not really. He'd come to terms with his guilt over taking that leave - It had helped to bludgeon that Death Eater - that satisfying crack of fist into flesh had assuaged the guilt.

No, it was that he saw Dean watching as Hermione brushed a lock of hair from Ron's face or hugged Neville. He'd seen the envy and the want in Dean's eyes as Harry had come into Dean's room, triumphantly recounting a battle, practically skipping as he embraced everyone in the room. He wanted to give touch back to Dean because he couldn't conceive of never being touched by anyone ever again.

It was with these thoughts in his head that he finally woke to see Dean staring at him again. Seamus stared back, noticing the slight wrinkles pressed into his face by the pillow and the wrinkles on his arm from the blankets. Seamus envied that fabric. It wasn't fair that it was only human touch Dean couldn't have. It wasn't fair that Seamus realised what he wanted and Dean couldn't know.

"What were you dreaming about?" Dean whispered, as if afraid to break the moment between them.

"You and me. We were taking the piss and bumping shoulders. Do you miss it?" Seamus didn't need to define 'it', he saw that Dean understood by the closed expression on his face.

"Of course I do. Yesterday? I hated you." The words sliced through Seamus as his breath caught. "I hated that you were hugging your mum and I hated you for having that. Felt about two inches tall but I hated you and I hated myself for hating you."

Seamus didn't know what to say as they continued to stare and watch each other. He knew that his face was showing how much the words hurt; he could feel it pooling deep in his soul. It didn't make much of a difference that he understood where it was coming from. It still hurt.

"I don't hate you, you know. You're my best mate, more than, since we're being honest. I can't even tell my mum and family because they won't understand what happened, not really. I haven't even told them what we've been doing since we left Hogwarts. Can't do it, can't put that on my mum, she's already lost too much." Dean sounded so sad that Seamus couldn't take it much more, he wanted _his_ Dean back, the cheerful boy with the quill in his hand, a devious smile on his face as he sketched McGonagall in a risqué position during Transfigurations.

Seamus didn't remember crossing the room and he didn't remember sitting on the edge of Dean's bed. If he'd thought about it, he wouldn't have done it but he wasn't thinking. He reached out a hand and touched the curve of Dean's chest where it rested under the blanket. "Christ, Dean. Christ." He couldn't think of anything else to say - there weren't words that properly conveyed 'so sorry you're stuck like this' after all.

The indrawn breath from Dean had Seamus flinching, pulling his hand back like that time he'd touched the hot stove when he was four. He even looked at his palm like it wasn't attached to his body.

"Do it again, put it back." Dean's voice was hesitant for all the demand.

There wasn't anything else Seamus could do but comply. They didn't break eye contact as Seamus's hand, shaking and scared, rested down onto the blanket once more. "Shay..." Dean trailed off but the wonder came through as Dean rolled to his back and Seamus's hand slipped from his side to rest in the center of Dean's chest. Seamus could see, in the grin and the relief, the Dean he'd missed. Hope bloomed as their smiles built, each feeding off the other.

"Does it... that is, does it hurt?" There was a flutter in his stomach as Seamus asked.

Dean didn't answer except to put his hand over Seamus's and he cried out in pain. Seamus snatched his hand back and jumped off the bed.

"Guess I'm not fixed after all." It was gut wrenching to go from that grin to this crushed expression.

"We'll get you fixed." Even as he promised, Seamus doubted that it would ever be fixed. The Healers hadn't been able to do anything about it, why did he think he could do it? As the breeze fluttered the curtains, he realised that he was standing in his pants in the center of the room. If they didn't dress and head down soon, his mam was going to come looking for them if she hadn't already left for her shop in town.

"Come on, lad, we'll get you an Irish fry. No one does breakfast like the Irish." As Seamus turned to rummage in his rucksack, he caught just a ghost of a smile on Dean's face and that was enough for now.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In the past, Seamus has cursed his mam and her ability to know far more than he'd ever wanted her to figure out. He had cursed her narrow-minded view of the war and Harry, how she'd only see what she wanted and wouldn't consider a disparate opinion. Their rows when he'd come back after Fifth Year and had shouted at her while she'd shouted back with the kitchen table between them. That summer was the worst of his life and he'd wanted to run away and become a rover or go to Dublin and earn his way in one of the shops there.

Dean had kept him from doing it, his sensible owls calming Seamus down while he'd sent back flaming remarks filled with vitriolic diatribes against his mother and the rest of his family for taking her side. They didn't know Harry, didn't know Cedric or any of the dead. They couldn't possibly know what it was to live with this. Some days, during that summer, Seamus wondered what it would be like to be in Dean's house where the war wasn't mentioned because Dean didn't have to bring it up; he could just say that he was doing well in his classes and leave it at that. His family didn't get the Prophet and didn't know the state of the world.

In all those days and years, Seamus had never considered what it would be like to be sharing his small room at the top of the stairs with Dean. At the time Seamus had decided they'd come here, he'd only wanted some time for Dean to breathe in the peace and serenity of the countryside, get a bit of colour back into his skin, add a bit of lightness to his step.

They'd had owls, of course. They weren't completely unaware of what was going on with their mates. It was getting harder to hide the owls asking Seamus when he was coming back to assist in the war; they needed him, they were feeling shorthanded with both Dean and Seamus out of commission, they'd been attacked and no one could cast a hex the way Seamus could, no one cheered the others when they needed it like Seamus.

Their last trip to St. Mungo's had given them a bit of hope as they'd discussed that morning when Seamus had rested his hand over Dean's side with the blanket between them. Since then, Dean had tried gloves but the leather had burned. Wool wasn't much better.

But after their last trip to St. Mungo's, Seamus appreciated his mam as she'd come along on the journey and had taken Dean home while Seamus had stayed to meet with McGonagall and the Order. Seamus pretended he didn't see the envy as Dean tossed one last look behind him, pretended he didn't see the abandonment in Dean's eyes as he left him for the first time in months.

They'd understood, some more than others, why Seamus was resigning his post. He'd be there if things got desperate but they were winning, at last, and that had come about while he'd been out of it. While Ron had shouted about Seamus leaving when the going got tough, Harry had been a quiet supporter who settled the argument. Neville had been a bastion of strength for him as well.

The arguing had taken its toll, though, as it had consumed a week of time that Dean had been left with his family and God only knew what his family had told Dean. They'd felt free to discuss potty training and Seamus's habit of running around starkers up until the age of ten in front of Seamus, so he could only dread the stories that they'd share when he wasn't around to keep them slightly sensible.

Seamus appreciated his mam more than ever when he heard Dean laughing like he had back at Hogwarts, before the injury and before the war. He wasn't sure how long he stood outside the kitchen door and listened to them talking but when he finally opened the door, his steps were lighter than they'd been in four years. His heart lightened when they included him in the conversation, arrayed around the table and with warm milk and his mam's biscuits in front of them. This, more than the air outside or the green of the fields, was what he'd missed and he hadn't even realised it until he'd gotten it back in this moment.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When he'd been little, Seamus had gone with his family into town to the small church there and listened as the priest had lectured, cajoled and laughed his way through the readings of Peter, Paul, Mark and Matthew. He'd worried over sinning for the longest time, sure that he would be going straight to hell for stealing his sisters' knickers to put on the sheep or that time he'd eaten all the biscuits out of the tin and then blamed Dermot for it.

His First Confession had been a scary proposition as he'd climbed into the Confessional and had chanted what he'd secretly written down on the palm of his hand. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned...". After he'd confessed to his transgressions - some he'd invented to make up for the ones he'd forgotten - he'd spent a good two hours on his knees reciting the Hail Mary and the Apostles' Creed and the Our Father.

It'd been years since he'd been to Confession as he'd never bothered with Confirmation. He didn't have time, what with the war and defending a home that didn't even know it was in need. Right now, however, he wondered if he'd get his soul back if he went into that Confessional and talked to the priest about what he was feeling, dreaming, wanting.

Surely watching his mate dress and undress and then waking up with Dean's name on his lips, sure that the sound was still trembling in the air, was enough to send him straight to Hell without the benefit of a trial, no matter what he confessed to or how many Hail Marys he recited with the Rosary in his hand. If that wasn't enough to send him to the Burning Gates, he was sure that those moments he was tempted to touch Dean, regardless of the pain he'd cause, would do the trick, possibly even get him an interview with the big man himself. He'd tried it without seeing the priest - late at night, in his bed, under the covers, thumbing over the beads and warming them in his palm as he'd recited prayer after prayer.

It hadn't worked, just like the monthly visits to St. Mungo's hadn't worked for Dean. After the initial excitement over that touch that haunted Seamus's dreams still, they hadn't found a combination of fabrics that allowed Dean to touch or be touched for any length of time more than a few seconds through a thick layer of cloth. The Death Eaters Seamus had attacked hadn't known anything and Malfoy had died and taken the secret of the spell to the grave.

There were times that Seamus wondered if God had damned the two of them because Magic wasn't approved by the Church. Hadn't the Church burned witches at the stake for being unnatural? Perhaps God had taken it into his head to damn the two of them this way. It wasn't fair, as Seamus wasn't even sure about Dean's thoughts on Church and such; neither of them had gone since they'd moved to Ireland and his mam hadn't forced them to accompany the rest.

So it was that Seamus found himself sitting in church between his mother and the aisle. He stood when required, the prayers and recitations pouring off his lips as if it hadn't been six years since he'd last been to church. He kneeled and prayed, his thoughts on Dean back at their house alone with a book in the main room. He stood and joined the procession of faithful as they journeyed to the priest in front of the altar. He opened his mouth to receive the Body and sipped the wine for the Blood. He walked back to his pew, kneeling in front of it for his recitation of prayers and his only prayer, repeated only the once in hope that it would be heard for being all that more fervent. _Please, Lord,_ Dean _, just fix Dean_.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was peaceful in the garden at this hour. With Mairin off with her lad, Margaret Mary at home with her husband, Fiona helping his mam with some project or another and Dermot and his da out for an evening at the pub, Seamus and Dean found themselves alone there in the garden while the fairy lights twinkled above them. They'd had five visits to St. Mungo's since Dean had been released. He wouldn't dwell on the injury or that Dean had refused to go back for more treatments, though, as that was for Dean to decide on.

Instead, Seamus dwelled on the small talk between them while the sounds of the farm soothed.

"Do you think your mum will make the brown bread for tomorrow's meal? No one else does it like she does." Dean sounded wistful and Seamus smiled into the growing darkness.

"Aye, if you ask her, I'm sure she'd be willing. If I'm the one doing the asking, I'm sure she'd tell me to piss off and make it meself." They both laughed before the silence settled once more.

Seamus wanted, so very fiercely, to lean over and rest his head on Dean's shoulder and to have Dean's arm come swinging around his own shoulders, holding him close. It'd happened in his dreams so many times that he just thought that maybe this time, it would be able to happen here and now. He'd never try, though.

"Need topped off?" Seamus gestured towards Dean's almost empty cup of tea.

"Anymore and I'll be up pissing all night." Giving credence to his words, Dean tossed the dredges onto the rosebushes next to the small bench where they sat, arms and legs almost touching but not quite.

When a bird starting singing in the trees in the back of the garden, Seamus looked to Dean and Dean looked to Seamus.

"They're playing our song," they spoke in tandem, grinning at one another before sobering and leaning ever so slightly closer. Soon, Seamus could feel Dean's breath drifting over his lips. If he closed his eyes, it was almost as if they were pressing lip to lip, kissing, finally.

"Shay..." Dean's voice was low and erotic and sent a thrill racing down Seamus's spine.

"I know, Dean, Christ but I know. Me too."

As night fell, they stayed as they were, a breath away from one another, pretending and dreaming. Conversation slipped away but that was alright with them. They didn't need the words because they _knew_.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Spring was Seamus's favourite time of the year. It always seemed like his forefathers, the ones that had fought for the land and the freedom of the Irish people, were sending their blessings out on that land as it started to bloom. Perhaps it was fanciful but he thought maybe it was their blood and sacrifice that allowed the plantings to be so successful and not the chemicals and sprays his da used to keep the crops fertile. He liked to think that it was because they were Irish and they were farming the land instead of bathing it in blood again.

It was during this spring that Seamus and Dean received the owl that informed them that the Wizarding world would also stop bathing the land in blood. Voldemort was dead; the remnants of his supporters were either dead, imprisoned or being tracked down. After over four years of war, there'd be peace but not without its victims.

One of those victims was walking beside Seamus through the fields while Seamus's new Irish Wolfhound, Dougal, gamboled about, chasing after rabbits. After almost a year of suffering, Dean seemed at peace with the idea that he wouldn't get better. They'd both become resigned to it, even if Seamus wanted more. That, too, was something that he'd resigned himself to. There wouldn't be more, no matter how much Seamus wished otherwise.

There wouldn't be walks in the fields with their hands entwined and there wouldn't be kisses under the shade of the giant old tree near the ruins at the corner of their land. There wouldn't be any hands ghosting down his chest that weren't his own nor would he be threading his fingers into Dean's hair, the roughness of it prickling his palms. There wouldn't be the brush of fingertips when they passed the salt between them and the shy smiles that touch would cause.

Seamus wouldn't trade this moment for those touches, though, not really. The lack of touch had created an intimacy between them, intensifying the small things. The inflection of words or the glances shared all too often between them, the assurance that the other would be there when one woke, all of those things meant more than a hand cupping a cheek or brushing a lock of hair from the forehead.

They finally settled at the rock wall Seamus had described to Dean those long months ago in their shared bunks. Seamus hopped on top of it, walking around with arms akimbo while Dean settled and watched. Hamming it up to make Dean laugh, Seamus pirouetted, catching his balance before he fell.

"Get down before you crack your skull, wanker," Dean laughed even as he ordered.

As always, Seamus was quick to give Dean what he wanted, flopping down onto the hard rock next to him. He wouldn't admit that his arse hurt from the rapid descent. Instead, Seamus rested his hand a hairbreadths from Dean's on the cold rock while their legs angled out to touch the ground. The temptation to touch was always there but Seamus tamped it down as he smiled at Dean. He knew Dean was doing the same as he smiled back at Seamus.

They didn't need the words between them, they showed it in all the little gestures.

 

Translations:

_An Gorta Mór_ \- Irish term for The Great Famine

_Cead Mile Failte_ \- Irish welcome - Literal is A Hundred Thousand Welcomes

_céilidh_ \- Irish for a party, normally informal and with music and dancing.

_Tá mé chomh mór sin i ngrá leat_ \- Irish for I love you so much.


End file.
